“I’m returning to London in the morning.”
Her heart lurched. “You’re running away?”
“Call it what you will, but I need to put some distance between us.” He glanced along the dark landing. “I trust you will keep my secret. I mean to return to town and deal with the matter myself.”
“But we’re partners. We might be more than—”
“No.” He cut her short to say something damning. “We can never be anything more than family.”
ChapterSeven
Nicholas closed his bedchamber door and released a weary sigh.
He had been one heartbeat away from taking what he wanted. A second away from ruining the woman he had sworn to protect. Like the savage he hid beneath a facade, he would have laid her down in the tower, settled between her sweet thighs and fed his craving.
Thankfully, in a moment of clarity, he’d recalled something his mother had once said: a passionate woman often confused lust for love.
It had been as good as plunging his head into a water trough, enough to shock him to his senses. Like his father, he had everything to lose. He might make the ultimate sacrifice only to suffer a lifetime of pain and regret.
The mere memory of his parents’ marriage, the fights, the loneliness, the disappointment and despair was enough to swear a man to celibacy.
Yet as he pushed away from the door, his body still thrummed with the need to join with her, to make Helen Langley his.
Merciful Lord!
It would be a long and miserable night if he didn’t do something to cool his blood. He might take himself in hand, but the second he closed his eyes, Helen would be there with her beguiling smile, begging to be kissed.
No, what he needed was brandy.
Copious amounts of the stuff.
Enough to numb his senses.
Prising the door from the jamb, he crept along the corridor, stopping only to hide in the shadows when he noticed Mrs Waltham, Holland’s paternal aunt, creeping downstairs.
Thankfully, the woman disappeared down a dim corridor, so Nicholas snatched the brandy decanter from the drawing room and marched back to his bedchamber.
After tossing back the contents of his first glass, he poured another and stood at the window, staring out into the darkness.
It didn’t take long for thoughts of Helen to consume him, for him to list the reasons a union between them would be impossible. His blood pact with Sebastian. His ruined name. His fear of making a mistake like his father. He would rather live without Helen than know he was the cause of her misery.
But the imp on his shoulder took to whispering in his ear.
She wants you—and not as a damn brother.
She would have kissed you tonight.
She is not your mother.
He knocked back the rest of his brandy and refilled the glass.
To his relief, he spotted two people strolling through the garden. Guessing their identities offered the perfect distraction, but they clung to the shadows, making it almost impossible to note any distinguishing features.
The exercise proved tiring.
Drinking the remains of the brandy acted as the ideal tonic.
Indeed, he vaguely recalled dropping onto the bed before he slipped into a deep slumber and dreamt of Helen.